by Dillon, Paul
The waiter nodded and left. Ben turned off the main lights, returning the room to a faint orange glow.
“One last cocktail … a perfect end to a perfect evening,” He handed a drink to Elena; their glasses chinked.
She skimmed the surface with her lips, letting the clear liquid run over her tongue. Such a fiery taste was at odds with the cold frosted-feel of the martini glass. This notion always delighted her.
Across the lagoon, a thousand stars shone above the mountains of Kefalonia.
“You’re right, it’s a pretty view.” Elena watched the car headlights following the bends along the road to Fiskardo.
“Unforgettable…” Ben waved his hand in the direction of Drapano Bridge. “The obelisk looks like a candle, floating on the dark lagoon.”
The twinkling panorama was a picture postcard memory for Elena, a fitting souvenir of their ephemeral passion. What an excellent decision she had made, extending her stay on the island; so many secrets stored for the future. Things had worked out well.
Stepping into the room, she placed her martini on the table next to the bed. Ben stood outside and watched her turn towards him, holding out her hand in the dim light.
He stepped inside and reached for her; Elena unhooked the fastener of her halter-top, clutching the two ends with her right hand. They held each other, in the darkness, their eyes inches apart, delighting in the moment.
“Thank you for everything,” she whispered.
A single teardrop formed in the outer corner of her right eye, she could feel it growing larger, ready to fall. Elena tilted her head back, but it was too late, the tear slowly made its glistening way down her cheek. Ben traced its arc until it dissolved into her skin, its tracks forever etched into his heart.
Funny how he’d woke this morning, restless and troubled, thinking about Elena; tomorrow would be the same, and the day after. For a moment, he imagined the love chemicals gushing like geysers inside his brain, raging beyond his control. Even if he possessed the will, it was too late to close the floodgates. Ben vowed to find a way, any way, to make her stay.
Chapter 38
Ioannis sat outside at a large oak table under the shade of a cluster of pines. Far out to sea, the early evening sun cast its still powerful glare over the land. Through the branches, smoldering red sunlight created patterns on the table. Beyond the pines, an olive grove sloped down towards the phosphorescent bay of Argostoli.
“Where did everybody go?” asked Nicia.
“They took the kids to Makris Gialos Beach. I don’t know when they’ll be back,” replied Elena. She closed her eyes, tired from the day’s events, the festival of Saint Gerasimos, the visit to Drapano Cemetery. “I’ll call Mom if you like.”
“Don’t bother them,” said Andreas. “They’ll come back when they’re ready.”
With an eternal persistence, the cicadas’ rasping calls permeated the air; loud and vociferous from the pine branches above, softer, more melodic from the distant orchard beyond.
Ioannis sipped a cold beer, his second. “When I saw the inscription on the tomb, I thought only of myself,” he said.
“What do you mean?” asked Nicia.
“For the brother that we had,” said Ioannis, repeating the epitaph. “I didn’t think about you, but Stamos was your brother too, and yours, Andreas. You were always like a brother to me—now you are a true brother through marriage.”
Elena looked at Nicia; she’d never heard her father mention Stamos by name.
“What I said was true,” Ioannis continued. “I remember everything about that day; the sound of the insects in the garden, Stamos calling me to play, the wooden water barrel. It wasn’t my fault.”
“Of course it wasn’t,” said Nicia. “How can you think that?”
“I betrayed Stamos,” said Ioannis.
“Dad,” said Elena; she could tell he was close to tears.
“If only I had prayed for him like I prayed for myself. Saint Gerasimos might have intervened and spared him. I’ve never been able to forgive myself. I was selfish, concerned only for my own safety.”
“Nobody blames you,” said his sister.
Elena had never heard her father open up like this before; she doubted whether anyone had.
“I waited for what seemed like an eternity until the rescue party arrived. Saint Gerasimos was by my side, talking with me—he told me stories from his childhood; his icon was on the floor a few feet from my face. Finally, men appeared, they asked me who was in the house. I told them—Grandma’s right here and Stamos outside. Only then did I realize Stamos wasn’t there, that he hadn’t come to help me.” Ioannis paused, choked up by the memory, “I heard the men in the garden—I heard a man shouting, ‘The boy is dead’.”
Nicia poured herself another coffee, “Father told us they took you to a temporary hospital.”
“They carried me across the street. I remember hearing Father’s voice—he stood over me but I daren’t tell him what I’d done.”
“Why did you never tell us what you were going through?” Nicia asked.
Ioannis took another sip of beer.
“After I woke the next morning, I thought I’d die from grief. I couldn’t think of anything but my shame. The day after was the same; losing Stamos was just too much to bear,” he paused, bracing himself to continue. “I suppose there’s some kind of safety mechanism built into all of us, especially the very young.
One morning, at the farm, two or three days after the earthquake, I remember waking up to the dawn. I sneaked out of the tent and climbed up into the oak tree; the climb was difficult, my leg hurt. I finally made it to the branch where I’d watched the sunrise the day before the big quake. The roosters were still there to greet the sun, the crows too.”
He stopped again, seeking the right words. “I don’t know—something snapped inside, the pain must have been intolerable. I … I buried Stamos again, in some vault, deep in within. Just as though I’d flicked a switch, the misery melted away at that moment, at sunrise, in Father’s tree, replaced by emptiness, emptiness free from pain. I’ve been keeping Stamos locked away ever since.”
Nicia put her hand on her brother’s arm, “Little Yanni.”
Ioannis smiled at his sister.
A pale scrawny cat stretched out on the steps underneath the courtyard gate, sparking a memory in Ioannis. “Yanni, the cat scratched me; I just wanted to help it. Do you remember, Nicia?”
“Like it was yesterday,” replied Nicia.
“Andreas, I don’t know how to thank you enough for everything. The memorials at the cemetery are truly special. I’ll go back to the States tomorrow with a happy heart.”
“There’s no need to thank me, we’re family.”
Elena thought of the photographs she had taken of the tombs, of the strength of the family around her.
“Why did you decide to finally come home?” Andreas asked.
“I started to have flashbacks of the earthquake,” said Ioannis, “and dreams…”
Elena was surprised at her father’s newfound openness.
“About three months ago, I started having sickening dreams. One night, I woke up in a sweat from the most terrible nightmare.”
“About the earthquake?” asked Nicia.
Ioannis didn’t reply to the question; he continued to recall his dream, speaking as if in a trance.
“I was in an abandoned factory or maybe a warehouse. It was daytime, yet quite dark; the windows small and far away. I stood looking down into a pit, the kind they use to inspect cars, only it wasn’t so deep—like the distance from a train platform to the tracks. A young boy, a child, knelt in the pit, partially buried in sand, his hands tied behind his back.”
The recitation of the dream disturbed Elena; she didn’t want to hear anymore.
“Somehow, I was both the man above and the boy below. I could experience both their feelings. The dream was very real. I started to shovel sand from a large pile into the pit, on top of the bound figu
re. The boy began pleading for his life. He had trusted me; I felt his shock, his sense of injustice as though I were he. To silence his cries, or hide my shame, I pulled a…” Ioannis stumbled for words, “some … thing from my coat pocket and jumped into the pit, next to the boy.”
Everyone looked on speechless.
“Like an executioner, I placed this … thing over his head, blindfolding and muzzling him. Even though silenced, I could still hear his pleas. The dream was so real, so clear…”
The people around the table remained silent; Ioannis held his head in his hands.
The silence became uncomfortable. Somewhere in the olive orchard, a crow called out, breaking the spell; Andreas finally spoke.
“Do you think the boy in the dream represented Stamos?”
“No,” replied Ioannis, “I think the dreams were a reminder, a reminder that I’m getting old,” he paused. “Shutting out the memory of Stamos was always going to come back and haunt me … the dreams told me it’s time to face up to the past.”
“What happened at the festival? You hardly said a word,” said Nicia.
“What is there to say after more than fifty years,” said Ioannis. “I’m not an eloquent man, all I can say is that thanks to your love—all your love, and the love of the Saint, I go home tomorrow with my heart at peace.”
“That’s all that matters,” said Nicia.
“For the second time in my life, the Saint talked to me,” said Ioannis. “Remember the sermon—at the plane tree? The Metropolitan said… We aren’t carrying Gerasimos out; he comes forth, lighting up the valley with his presence… At the plane tree, I could feel his spirit in the leaves of the trees; the call of the insects, the song of the birds. I could feel him in the vines, growing in the fields over the monastery wall. He gave back my childhood.
That was what he said to me.”
THE END
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